Drakkal took the robe by the sleeves and let it unfurl. He held Arcanthus’s gaze as he tied the robe around his waist, covering his groin with the main portion of the fabric.
Arcanthus’s expression darkened. “I expect that washed and de-furred before you return it.”
Drakkal gestured to Arcanthus’s long crimson loincloth. “Now we’re in matching outfits.”
The exaggerated look of disdain on Arc’s face should’ve been immensely satisfying, but it did nothing for Drakkal now. Part of Drakkal’s mind remained outside, scenting the air and searching for even the briefest glimpse of golden hair.
“Let’s get this over with,” Drakkal muttered. He turned and continued along the corridor. Arcanthus followed.
These halls were familiar by now, but Drakkal still hadn’t shaken the feeling that they weredifferent. He and Arcanthus had moved their operation into this facility a little over a year ago, in the wake of their fallout with Vaund and the Syndicate, and though it was furnished similarly to their old home he couldn’t help noting all the things that weren’t the same.
He still wasn’t sure if that bothered him or not. This place was home, but he’d always felt it was lacking something.
My mate.
The deeper Drakkal went into the compound, the stronger his agitation grew. He should’ve been thinking about a hundred other things—like the botched deal, or the potential of Foltham seeking vengeance despite Drakkal’s threat to expose his illegal activities—but his mind repeatedly returned to his terran.
Drakkal entered the workshop just ahead of Arcanthus.
Samantha, dressed in leggings and an oversized hooded sweater, was seated on one of the couches. She looked up from the tablet she was drawing on and smiled at him. “Hi, Drak.”
This workshop was small compared to the one Arcanthus had kept in their previous base of operations, but Drakkalpreferred it. This space was warmer, cozier. Arc’s desk—with its multitude of displays and controls—sat straight ahead, beyond the pair of dark red couches that were positioned to face each other. A counter with fabrication equipment, which Arcanthus used to create the physical ID chips, ran along the wall to the left. Sam’s desk was beside Arc’s; it was smaller and a bit cluttered, with several blotches of dried paint and a few bits of flattened, hardened clay marring its surface. The large cabinet behind it contained a variety of artistic tools. While she usually used her tablet, she’d also taken well to painting and, occasionally, sculpting.
Though Arcanthus had carried over the moody adjustable lighting and dark carpeting from his old workshop, this room seemed brighter and more welcoming. Samantha was largely to thank for that. She was also responsible for Drakkal’s favorite part of the room—the large, stone fire bowl hovering in the space between the two couches, crackling with holographic flames. It reminded him of older, simpler times.
Samantha’s gaze shifted past Drakkal to Arcanthus, and her smile took on a slight, mischievous tilt. “You two are wearing matching outfits.”
The smile that crept onto Drakkal’s lips was genuine, even if he didn’t feel the humor as fully as he should have. “That’s what I said. He’s upset because I wear it better.”
“Nowyou’re in the joking mood?” Arcanthus dropped onto the couch beside Samantha, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and draping his tail over her lap. She set her tablet on the cushion beside her and leaned against him.
Drakkal sat on the opposite couch, stretching his tail out beside him. Its tip lashed back and forth rapidly. The warmth emitted by the fire bowl, usually soothing and comfortable, made his skin prickle with heat. “No. I’m not.”
Samantha frowned, and Arcanthus’s expression softened.
“Well? What happened, Drak? Why’d you come home naked?” Arcanthus asked.
Samantha’s cheeks reddened. She cleared her throat and tilted her chin down, her hair falling over her face as though to hide. She’d been around the crew for a long time, was part of the family as much as anyone else, but she was still easily embarrassed—more often by what she said than what anyone else did. Drakkal understood well enough; Samantha was just a private person. She preferred to keep intimate matters between herself and Arcanthus.
“I was robbed,” Drakkal replied.
Simultaneously, both Arc’s and Sam’s eyebrows rose high.
“Bywho?” Arcanthus asked.
Gritting his teeth, Drakkal shoved himself off the couch. His ears flattened and his fur bristled as another wave of restlessness rippled through him. “A terran.”
“A terran robbedyou?”
“It’s not like we’re completely harmless, Arc,” Samantha said gently.
Arcanthus turned his face toward Sam and brushed a finger along her jaw. “I know, little flower. You’re proof of that yourself.”
Drakkal paced from one end of the couch to the other and back again; it wasn’t enough to vent even a fraction of the energy building within him, but it was better than staying still.
“I sent you to the durgan’s for a simple delivery,” Arcanthus said.
Drakkal growled. “Murgen wasn’t interested in simple.”